For a Liar's Love
by Novexus Prime
Summary: Colette is no one. The obscure daughter of an Orlesian no one. She's directionless and in the Inquisition struggles to define her identity. The Iron Bull is, before all else, an agent of the Qun. An instrument of discipline and direction, trained to recognize one's place in their environment and give them the correction they require. His care is what Colette doesn't know she needs.
1. Ox Man's Eye

For a Liar's Love

It's different, this place. I realize that can be said of any location that is indeed not another. But the spirit of this ancient hold is unlike anything I've dwelt in. And Skyhold does have its own presence. When one is walking across that lofty bridge, cold and fearful of looking away from your destination lest the dizzying heights make you lose your footing, the spirit of the looming towers and steadfast bulwark makes you shrink beneath it. Serault was not without its own tall structures and striking strongholds. But nothing in my brief life truly commands as this place does. Even when broken and nigh ruinous itself, Skyhold never swayed from its arresting spirit. Its a quality I suspect the elves were careful to craft into the very stones that made up the unbreakable bones of the hold. When I left my home and my family to pledge myself in service of the Inquisition I saw Skyhold when the fingers of civilization just barely began to pry away the grip of the untamed wilds across the courtyards and halls. I was no less taken with it then. It's been a truly remarkable journey this hold and the tour de force it housed has taken to come this far. Now it groans with supplies, stocked well enough to outlast any seige those blood crazed abominations could mount, and a stable boasting a calvary that could run them down and carve them to pieces when they retreated. The sense of determination and promise to overcome has been replaced with surety that comes with knowing victory is possible and we are capable of fulfilling the purpose of the Inquisition.

My hands have not known much hard work, my fair skin has never seen many hours beneath the unforgiving sun, but that spirit made my chest swell with pride as I rolled up my sleeves and put myself to work. The days were spent aiding the builders and carpenters, helping the sisters bind wounds and scrubbing uniforms. I was happy for the work! I realized I wasn't suited for the role of a minor noble, the fourth daughter of a retainer to comte so on and so forth. I felt truly fulfilled here. But the night, the night was different. When all falls to silence, and the only thing to keep me company in the long hours in the darkness is the mournful whistle of the mountain winds through the trees I'm left with a different feeling. A dull ache of lonliness that is only eclipsed by the painful ebb and flow of my own haunting thoughts. In my bunk I wring my hands and rock myself, seeing shadows in the dark and making every effort to contain myself and let my bunkmate sleep undisturbed. But there are nights when I have to escape. When the only that can steady my thundering heart is to flee the heavy darkness and oppressive stillness of night. I walk the ramparts on those nights.

The cold mountain air grounds me and cuts through my cotton chemise. On most nights the light of the moon is enough to illuminate my way, and on the rare occassion that it isn't the soldiers light crackling braziers. Those are the nights I appreciate the most. The cold air soothes my flushed skin, the scent of smoke and decaying leaves on the breeze eases my rolling stomach and the eternal blanket of sapphires dotting the velvet sky above me subdues my heavy thoughts. I always leave behind my robe when I come here, sometimes the weight is too much to carry. The patrolling soldiers barely spare a second glance when they see me wander across their paths. That's not to say they know me, and I think they assume I'm a survivor of Haven's destruction. Maybe I saw horrors when the mages attacked and the only escape from my memories is to pace this endless loop on the walls of Skyhold. Perhaps it's untrue to call it a loop. I ascend the stairs outside my quarters, my mousey brown hair tightly bound in a neat braid, feet and face bare, and blue eyes blinking away the mist of leaving my warm bunk. My hands wring my sleeves and the dirty hem of my too long skirt billows and nearly tangles about my legs. The stone steps are polished smooth by the endless coming and going of heavy boots and they could nearly pass for alabaster under the cool blue light of the half moon. I tread the same path, following the tall ramparts until I reach the door I won't let my shadow touch. Then I turn and retrace my path until I come upon the same dilapidated tower, only the opposite door, and stop before my shadow reaches the threshold when I turn and do it all again. It's a cycle I follow until my lids are too heavy to lift and I dare brave the darkness of my bunk again. Those nights are the easiest. I fall into a heavy sleep and the rest until the fingers of dawn break the horizon. But there are a few nights when I lack the courage to return and I slip to the ground, knees drawn to my chest and back against a corner where I slip into a slumber until the morning's patrol gently shakes me awake and ushers me back to my quarters before the pale light of the sun can push away the shadow of the evening.

That's where I find myself tonight. I lean against an outcropping of stone and look out over the garden. The rustle of changing leaves against the long, low moan of wind drawing my eyes across the beautifully appointed sanctuary. I applauded the decision to designate this an area of reflection and introspection. The images of Andraste in her graceful pose, head tilted and bowed and hands offered outward in mute benediction, was something of a source of comfort. Despite my lack of fervent faith. My still too alert eyes urged me to take up my pacing again and I of course obeyed. Those I passed in my walk only acknowledged me with a curt nod, but said nothing. And I was content not to expend the energy in interaction. My mind wandered as I strolled, to my mother and father, their chagrin at my decision to make the pilgrimage after the news of Haven's destruction came. I lamented the loss of my nug, Leopold, and his happy honking when I gave him a long stroke and scratch of his back. I pondered how my eldest brother must be faring. I wondered if I might see him again as the Inquisitor conscripted and leased the remaining Templars. I would wager his loyalty would bring him to take his armor up again and return to the fold.

My knee impacts a solid surface and my nearly shut eyes snap open. I start and jump away, one hand rubbing away the pain of the impact and I can't contain the gasp of shock at my own lapse in awareness. I hear the creak and groan of wood within and I reel away from the door. The door that I have always taken such great care to leave undisturbed and give the occupant within no reason to suspect my presence outside on the nights that I pace these walls. The pain of my bruising knee is forgotten and I gather my skirts then flee. I push open the door leading through the commander's vacant office but the sound of a latch lifting and hinges creaking breaks the sound of my retreat and I duck my head. I feel the ox man's gaze burning like dragon's breath against my back. The door slams shut behind me and it only just drowns the sound of my curse. I keep my head low and by the time I reach my quarters my chest is heaving and the threat of returning to the heavy darkness of my bunk is made insignificant by the fact that I woke and was seen by the only person in this Inquisition that I fear: _The_ Iron Bull.

I burst through the door to my shared quarters and slam it shut behind me, already realizing that he likely heard it echo across the courtyard. My bunk mate shoots out of bed, a shout of surprise on her lips as she reaches for and lights a candle. "Colette!" She admonishes, strands of silver hair falling from beneath her night cap. "Mabella forgive me." I gasp, pushing heavily against the door behind me. Mabella holds the candle high and rises to her feet, gazing curiously at me over her sharp nose. "Is there cause for alarm?" She uses the candle to gesture towards my heaving chest. "No, no," I reassure her with a wave of my hand. "I sleep walk every now and again." A lie, and I feel guilty for telling it. I cross in front of her, not a terribly long distance in our cramped accomodations. I fall heavily into my bed and pull the wool blanket up to my chin. "I woke up in the stables and frightened myself." I was eager for her to swallow my lie and leave the subject be. The older woman stares at me for a few moments longer, and seemingly accepts that if I were untrue it would serve no purpose to contest me now. Not this late. She climbs back into her bed, snuffs out the light and with no utterance of goodnight I force my eyes to shut and will myself into a fitful sleep. Even in my shallow dreams dreading the normally celebrated emergence of the new day.


	2. Colette's Distress

To the uninitiated, the Herald's Rest can truly be an assault on the senses. Beyond the door is a serene mountain landscape, young trees with foliage of brilliant orange or muted sienna, the rustle of heraldry swaying in the breeze, the flutter of wings coming or going from the spymaster's perch. But one step inside the threshold and you're bombarded by the smell of smoke and fermented drink. Whatever you can hear of Miriam's lilting voice is drowned by the din conversation, laughter, and feet against the wooden boards above. The warm light of the candles illuminating what the dirty stained windows can't is welcome, but only draws attention to the wild variety of people within. Miriam is a fixture of course, in her well put together wardrobe, but around here you're bound to find a soldier still in armor, a dwarf with a mustache that only merits the title of 'supreme', an elf in the process of explaining her staff is merely a traditional Dalish bow, another elf with two dinner knives jutting from her lower lip as she tries her hand at impersonating an angry druffalo. At times a trussed up noble of garishly bright clothing and gaudy masks will be found, curiously tasting "The common drink" and finding it not a bit to his liking. On any given day the Herald's Rest is a feast for the eyes. What I try to ignore the most is the most difficult to avoid. The ox man owns the room each day that he comes down from his bed. His enormous stature is difficult to miss even from behind the stairway and hearth.

The sight of one or both of his horns is always the first to catch my eye when I come in. His shouts of laughter never cease to make me jump from my skin and when he passes me I can't help but shy away. I don't mean to say that I am a shy person, rather I suppose it's better to say I wilt. When he comes too close I wilt beneath his gargantuan presence. I fear he'll swing a tree trunk of an arm and send me across the room when he only meant to gesture, I worry that his unnecessarily huge horns will snag the chandelier and bring it crashing down on my head, and Maker preserve me if any part of me were unfortunate enough to find itself under his clumsy, massive feet. He's just... too big. He's entirely too large for this place. If I were to be completely honest I would have to confess his stature isn't what frightens me the most about The Iron Bull. It's his eyes. Ah, eye.

I don't care too much for his size; I trust myself to avoid any limbs or horns. But I can't bear to be under his gaze. It's heavy, it's sharp. I could find a way to like anyone, even an ox man, if they were good, honest people. I could make a friend in a crass, crude, and womanizing man even. But the Iron Bull- he's none of those things. By that I mean he is crass and crude and womanizing but none of them are what he is. At least that's the impression that I see. His eyes are too sharp, they hold too much intelligence to make me believe he's only what he presents himself to be. When he looks at me, truly looks at me, I feel like I've lost all privacy. He looks at me and I feel like I've been stripped bare. It unnerves me the way I sense that he can read my thoughts, my every move, without ever speaking to him I feel as if he knows exactly who I am. My values, my fears, the wants and needs that even I might not know or acknowledge. He sees every part of me and I hate it. I disguise my disdain as a contempt for the more beastly race. Which wouldn't seem a terrible stretch of the imagination when thinking of a younger woman with only the rumors which float among Orlesian social circles about rabbits and ox men in the wild and shadowy corners of the world. But in spite of the effort, I know that facade is paper thin at best. Instead, my next greatest asset is to be plain. I feel most at ease when his eyes never fall on me at all. I'm comforted when he never has reason to look at me with any degree of interest.

It doesn't bother me terribly when I'm called to lend a hand inside the Herald's Rest. In most cases, I'm only wanted when things are so busy that the Iron Bull would never have reason to pay me the slightest bit attention. And, despite the leering glances it earned me, the others understand that I will not serve him his drinks or food. They must think me bearing a sort of prejudice and until it stops serving my purpose I won't tell them otherwise. Nor do they seem terribly inclined to broach the subject with me. It's an understanding that I appreciate as I shoulder open the door to the tavern and swing it shut behind me with a heavy thud.

The bombardment of the sights, smells, and noise inside leaves me blinking for a moment until a smile curls the edges of my lips. It's already much, much warmer inside and I can feel that a good sweat will be worked up if I don't pace myself. Anticipating this I had already pulled my shoulder length hair into a painfully tight twist, neatly gathered and pinned to the back of my head. My linen sleeves were rolled up to my elbows as I made my way through the door, passing the blazing hearth, and coming to a halt beside the long bar. I smiled and offered a greeting to Cabot as I wiped my hands clean on the apron tied securely over my sleeveless tunic of wool. "And here I thought you were avoiding me." Cabot deadpanned, a cloth in one hand as he wiped down the bar.

I wondered briefly if that great mustache of his acted as some sort of natural filter to remove any pleasant tone from his voice. "I was," I shoot back cheerfully. "But I can't let you have the satisfaction of keeping me away from my favorite place." The dwarf only offered a sneer in response before sliding a tray across the bar to me and piling it with a wooden pitcher, filled to the brim with something that I can only assume is some sort of fire starter and a trio of freshly washed tankards. He jabbed a sausage of a finger at the tray then at a table just behind me. "Drink. There. Now." I take a moment to balance the tray carefully in one hand. "Is it your birthday?" I wonder aloud. "I don't think you've ever been in such a chipper mood." He waved a dismissive hand. "Do you want to annoy me or do you want to make sure our patrons don't go thirsty?" The annoyed look I shoot him over my shoulder is good natured as I turn carefully and take the five paces or so to the table.

Already I see the group has been enjoying their night, or perhaps not quite up to par with their strong drink. They greet me with raised glasses and happy cheers as they see that more drinks have arrived. Of course, I smile and joke with them as I lift the tankards from my tray for their newly arrived compatriots and tip the pitcher to refill them all. Coins are idly tossed onto my tray and I make the promise to be back soon and freshen their cups. I offer warm smiles to the patrons as I make a semi-circle through the room, checking their drinks and collecting empty plates and bowls. It goes unnoticed that my walk doesn't take me behind the stairs. But stopping just before the stairs and collecting plates from a table scare me terribly. The pain in my knee flares up as if it knows I'm coming too close to Bull. I'm hasty in retreating from the table and I can feel the heat in my cheeks. I drop my head and turn away to hide it. The very idea of that sharp eye recognizing me as the one at his door past midnight last evening is enough to have my palms sweating heart thundering. There's little I can do to stop myself from racing past Cabot and the bar, into the sanctuary of the backroom.

It's a clutter of barrels and bottles, with a basin of water for washing hastily flung into the corner, but a small haven of privacy on most nights. The tray slips from my fingers, spilling everything on it across the tops of barrels and noisily scattering flatware and coins over the floor. I hiss a curse and fall to my knees, gathering what I can off the floor into the hammock of my apron. "What did you do?" I turn and find Jane looming above me, clearly having stopped abruptly to avoiding toppling over my crouching body. Her expression is sympathetic as she looks over the mess I've made.

"I was in a rush," I explain, hurrying to get out of her way so she can deposit her own load of cups and mugs into the suds of the wash basin. "I was clumsy and dropped it. I'm sorry." She answered me with a puff of air, blowing a tendril of her red hair out of her eyes.

"Nothing to forgive, 'Lette. Accidents happen, did anything break?" I shook my head. "Not that I could see." She knelt beside me, lending an extra pair of hands and helping me set everything back on the tray. I rose and as I should have before set everything inside the basin. I turned back to the sound of a yelp and a hiss of pain. I left the empty tray on a barrel top and returned to Jane, her pretty features contorted in discomfort.

"A clay bowl broke," Jane hissed, reaching for a cloth in her apron pocket and revealing a flash of crimson against her sun-kissed palm. My stomach gave a turn as I gasped at the sight of the cut.

"That needs a bandage!" I gasped. She hissed once more as the cloth was pushed into her palm and I quickly tied the edges around it.

"I can ask Adeline to come and take my place while I go to see the healer," Jane explained, backing towards the exit. I nodded and took a cloth of my own, carefully gathering up the broken pieces from where they scattered under the wine rack. "Just take the next order Cabot is putting together for the Chargers until she gets here, alright?" I fumbled with the cloth and the pieces I had picked up clinked against the floor again.

"I can't do that, I'm sorry." I protested, exasperated to kneel and pick up the sharp pieces again.

Jane's tone brooked no argument as she gave an exasperated shout, "Colette please!" I could see in her brown eyes she was short on patience in her discomfort. "Just do it, this once. I don't understand your prejudice, he's not the monster you think he is." Her gaze lingered on me for a moment more before she left.

"Oh... okay," I muttered to the empty air. In a rush, I neglected the cloth and gathered up the largest shards of the bowl and disposed of them before collecting my tray and joining Cabot behind the bar. The dwarf looked me over with a curious eye, giving me a queer look as I sucked a prick of blood from my thumb. "No orders for you to take." He finally said, leaning with one hand against the bar.

I pulled my thumb from my lips, wiping it clean on my apron before I found the voice to answer him weakly. "I need the Charger's order." Cabot let a pregnant pause hang in the air, and I could see the lines of surprise lining his tattooed face. "Where's Jane?" He finally asked, turning away to collect a flagon and fill it, scraping away the head of foam and thrusting it back towards the man who sent it forward.

I had already begun to wring my hands. "Hurt, cut her hand on a broken bowl and gone to see the healer." I shoved my hands into my apron pockets.

"She expects you to serve the Chargers all night, does she? You?" The emphasis in his voice spoke volumes of his opinion of me.

My voice was meek and hardly above a whisper. I'm sure Cabot had to strain to hear me above the din of the tavern. "She's going to ask Adeline to take her place. I just need to take them their drinks until she gets here."

The dwarf's finger tapped the bar with a heavy thud, a thoughtful rhythm. Finally, he nodded and waved over my tray. Handing it to him I walking to wait for him on the opposite side of the bar. Two large stoneware bottles were uncorked and arranged near the center of the tray along with four flagons of beer, a thick head of foam spilling over the brim. "Say nothing." He warned me harshly. "We know you don't like Bull. We don't ask, you don't make a fuss and that's alright." He leaned heavily over the bar towards me, his voice low. "I don't care what your problem is, just keep it. To. Yourself. Can you do that?" I swallow thickly and nod. He pushed the tray towards me. "Just serve them and leave, Colette. Nothing else."

My hands shake as I reach for the tray and I take longer than usual to balance the load in my hands. My eyes never leave the precarious bottles as I walk and my pace stalls before I pass the stairs. I struggle to hide the tension in my shoulders and in my movements, it's easier now I'm not noticed by the drinking and celebrating mercenary company. I looked at the chatting and laughing bunch, hopelessly trying to guess which of the diverse group could have possibly wanted the beer or the mead on my tray. I lifted a flagon from the tray, turning in a circle and looking for an empty spot to put it on the small gathering of tables. "Beer here!" A gruff voice beckoned. Spinning on my heel I spotted the raised hand of a hooded dwarf, which was hastily filled with a flagon of beer. And in return he passed me his own empty tankard. I saw an understanding smile from beneath that bushy mustache of his and he leaned over his compatriots. "Who else needed beer?!" He bellowed with a hand cupped over his half hidden mouth.

That's the precise moment I feel it. That stormy grey eye is on me and I feel every barrier, every ounce of privacy is stripped from me. In front of all these people, I feel like I'm bare.

"Hey!" A shrill voice is suddenly shouting in my ear and I falter, I jump and the flagon in my hand spills over my hand and drips down my arm. A slender hand braces my shoulder and I'm met with the presence of a willowy elf, half her blonde head shaved and the other braided. Her slim brows furrow as she looks me over. "I said that I ordered another beer." I nod mutely and let her petite fingers pry away the flagon from my grasp. In my stumbling, the group descended into an awkward silence and I felt the searing heat of a blush creep up my neck. My head falls in shame and the weight of The Iron Bull's gaze is nearly too much to bear. I rush to put the bottles down on the appropriate tables. I can't bear the thought of looking at him, and there's no subtle way to avoiding turning your eyes on a man that large.

"Uh, wh-who's is this one?" I'm mumbling now, but it doesn't fall on deaf ears.

"Mine." Is the simple answer. In retrospect, I see that it was foolish of me to serve the Charger's drinks and not anticipate having to serve him. But regardless I still feel my stomach drop to my feet. There's no possible course of action that could stop him from recognizing me if he had not already. My heart is hammering in my ears. What humiliation it will be when he realizes I was the one outside his door, haunting the ramparts like a ghost. Worse yet will be when I meet his eye; when I look into his eye I know that everything that I am, every secret, dream, fear, and instinct will be open for him to read. And that transparency without knowing who is delving so deep into me is what petrifies me. It's a terror that I don't have the courage to face.

"Are you going to give it to me?" His voice shatters my thoughts, rather it makes it impossible to think. My lips gape but no sound comes out, I shut my mouth and nod. Eyes fall to the floor and I wish to the Maker that I had allowed myself the buffer of leaving my hair down to cover my face. I hold the flagon out at arm's length, I shuffle forward until I see the brace of his ankle. My head turns away and I quickly put the drink down on the table at his side, pivoting on my heel to retreat.

"Stop." My steps falter and halt, The Iron Bull's words work like a spell over me. I can't take another step.

"Give it to me. In my hand." I hear the creak of leather behind me, the sound of his harness moving with the extension of his arm. I can only answer with silence. Turning, picking up the flagon by the base and pushing the handle into his open palm. The prick of tears makes me blink rapidly as I'm forced to wait for him to accept the drink. Another long moment then, slowly, his scarred, grey fingers wrap around the handle and lift the weight from my hands. I withdraw my hand, staring at the floor and waiting to be told to leave. I don't hear him take a drink, but I see his knee shift as he idly balances the flagon on it with one hand.

"Thank you, Colette." Is all he says and just as I did the night before: I turn and flee. I blink to keep the tears from falling until I'm past the bar and standing in the storage room. I let them fall into the wash basin as I scrub and rinse the dishes deposited in the searing water.

I quickly wipe my face against my sleeve as I hear footsteps approach. "I'm here, Jane says you needed help." I turn my head and nod, feigning enthusiasm as Adeline picks up an apron from one of the many hooks set in the wall.

"Thank you for coming!" I chirp. "The Chargers are taken care of so you've got a little while to check on the rest of the tables before they need more."

Adeline makes a surprised sound. "Thank you, Colette." The plate in my hand splashes back into the water, spraying me with flecks of suds. A weary sigh heaves its way from my chest and I brace my hands against the sides of the basin as I take a moment to collect myself again.

"Of course, let me know if you need anything." The effort to alter my tone to resemble that of a pleasant, happy woman is nearly exhausting. But it's an effort I gladly make to make Adeline smile and leave me in a moment's privacy.


	3. Shanedan

In spite of the howling air of the Frostbacks. In spite of the flecks of snow that whip across the forge and sting the skin. There's still an unholy heat down here. Among the growing icicles that cling to frozen stone and a waterfall that hails ice down the mountain this forge blazes like a sun of its own making. Sweat beads and falls from my brow and the wisps of hair that I can't tame cling to my face and neck in damp tendrils. My hands are covered by rough leather gloves to stave off callouses and bloodied palms. I left my arms bare. Instead of my usual garb of long, modest sleeves necessity drove me to neglect sleeves altogether. An overshirt of wool which fastened behind my neck did what it could to let my skin breathe. Already I felt my small clothes soak through and the breeches covering my legs did nothing to release my excess heat. Still, I lift and press the bellows when Harritt indicates. Into the coals would go a long piece of raw ore and I would go to work, stoking the flames until he withdrew a glowing form and let me rest while he hammered it into shape. I enjoyed the work, and since the handful of times I lent a hand in the forge I felt myself gain a bit more strength and endurance. It was satisfying to watch a piece of rock become a refined tool of war. Dagna was pleasant company and I urged myself to foster a bit of the same curiosity she bubbled with.

With a pair of tongs, Harritt gripped a wide piece of iron, cooled and only half hammered into the shape required of a breastplate. His mustache twitched as he looked it over thoughtfully. "Work the bellows a little slower, alright?" The iron was turned over as he inspected it. "Nearly heat it up too fast, can't afford to have this crack before I can even temper it."

"I like the way it glows when it's hot." Dagna chirped from her table. "Wouldn't it be better if you kept your swords glowing hot? Bet they'd hurt the demons more."

That drew a smile to my lips. The way Harritt would grumble and twitch his mustache while Dagna would barely notice enough to slow down in her stream of ideas and observations made me laugh. He was her personal captive audience, not that he did much to change that fact. I sit on the edge of the border where the cool blue light that filters through the icicles meets the warm blazing illumination of the forge. My chair creaks and I shift and rise to my feet and cross the cavernous room to the blazing brick forge. The bellows are set into the floor and wide enough that I'm not forced to stoop in order to work them. Harritt explained that they must be set low in order to move ash out of the 'pot' and push air through the bottom of the coals. He nods at me to begin and I take the handle. It rests at the level of my hips and I lift slowly before pressing down with all my weight in long, measured strokes.

With each channel of air forced through the coals, I feel the heat flare through the bricks. The orange glow grows and dims as I steadily work the coals into an inferno. From behind the forge I see sparks fly as Harritt rakes through the coals and deposits the plate of iron in the heat. I maintain my pace as he watches the metal heat carefully. When he's pleased that I'm heating the metal with sufficient patience he steps away and sets out an array of hammers beside his anvil. I turn my attention back to my work and concentrate on keeping my pace. The steady huff and blow of the bellows set my rhythm and I only barely recognize the sound of the door creaking open and shut. The exchange that follows is muted and I can only imagine Harritt is taking another requisition order. My eyes catch the movement of Harritt returning to the hearth, his mustache upturned in a mirthful smile. "You're not exactly the easiest man to outfit, but we're working on it." The tongs are taken up in his hands again and pushed into the heat of the forge, withdrawing the sizzling plate from the coals.

Skin the shade of ash draws my eye and my arms stumble. The handle of the bellow slips from my grasp and I restrain a frustrated growl. It's something Harritt doesn't seem to notice and I take the moment to enjoy the reprieve.

"Nearly had some problems with cracking but my lovely help is keeping things on track." He explains behind me as I turn away and pull away the heavy leather gloves to let my hands breathe. "Won't compromise the strength of the plate, I promise that."

There's a pause, I get the sense that Harritt is turning the plate for the Iron Bull's inspection. A moment or two passes and I feel the weight of his eye again. I find less of an aversion to it. Eight days passed since I serve the Iron Bull and his chargers, my path crossing his on more than one occasion and I often marked the way his gaze had seemed to soften with each interaction. I wondered if after each pleasant greeting and brief passing I impressed upon him my plain nature. I wondered if I proved uninteresting enough for a second glance. I could only assume I was sufficiently boring to atone for the debacle in the Herald's Rest. And if he had identified me the night I fled from his door he gave no indication. It was a thought that eased me from flinching under his gaze to brushing it off. "Thank you for working so quickly on it," The Iron Bull complimented. "I know it isn't easy putting a new breastplate and pauldrons together on short notice. I appreciate you having this ready before we leave."

It was difficult for me to hear the ox man use such a soft voice. That's not to say that I have no appreciation for his softer tone. It's simply an adjustment to my ears. I was much more accustomed to his thunderous sound. A hand on my shoulder gave me a start, I turned and saw the Iron Bull's enormous hand, tips of a few fingers missing and swallowing my shoulder. "Well done, Collette." Was all he spoke, I only dipped my head in acknowledgment and with that his hand was gone. The ease with which I accepted his praise was unexpected, but not alarming. The thud of his boots lessened as he stepped away from me. "I'll owe you three a drink and a meal for this!" He laughed.

"You won't see me turning you down," Harritt affirmed.

"I'm always hungry!" Chirped Dagna.

The trio spoke for a moment or two longer before the Iron Bull excused himself and departed. I slipped the gloves back on my hands, fingers flexing in the thick leather. The bellow was taken back in my hands as Harritt gave me a nod and deposited the plate in the coals again, nodding to me. "Alright, let's get back to it then."

oo00OO00oo

"Off to bed then?" I pause my trek to my quarters. Turning back to Jane and casting my eyes to the darkening horizon.

I nod. "I need a wash first but I planned to go to bed early tonight."

Adeline makes a sour face at me. She waves a hand to beckon me to rejoin her. "Come have dinner first. We see so little of you."

That struck me as a strange thought. I felt that, when here, we were part of the Inquisition. A small fraction of a whole that needed to work well to the benefit of the whole. Socializing seemed a distraction, it was the reason I felt I made so few friends while here. But at this time I had completed my tasks and I was hard-pressed to think of a polite reason to retreat from company. "Alright," I agree, turning on my heel and joining Adeline on the well-worn path to the Herald's Rest.

"I've never asked," She began, thoughtfully putting a hand on her hip as she walked. "What's your poison?"

I tilt my head and make a noise of hesitation. "Would you think less of me if I didn't have one?"

She laughed, a musical noise to my ears. "No no, of course not." She said with a dismissive wave of her hand, flicking a lock of her scarlet hair back over her shoulder. "I only thought that since you were Orlesian and sort of noble you would have some fancy wine you favored."

My freckled nose wrinkled. "I don't have a taste for wine," I confessed. "They're always too bitter or I don't like the burn it leaves in my throat. Nothing is sweet enough for my taste."

Adeline stepped ahead of me and pushed the tavern's door open, allowing me to step out of the cold mountain air before she followed and pulled the heavy door shut. "Just water then?"

I could hear the tone of disbelief. "No, no! Of course water will always do but I'll accept milk or the juices of fruits."

Adeline waved hello to Cabot before ushering me up the stairs. We settled nicely into a table set in the corner. Still afforded a lovely view over the tavern, now fairly full with Templars and soldiers. My legs felt stifled in the breeches I still sported as I crossed them and leaned comfortably against the back of my chair. Something my governess would have tsked at.

Back and forth we spoke of preferences of taste, I preferred the juices of fruits, her the bouquet of dark wines. Adeline professed a taste for red meats as well and I disagreed that the flesh of birds was superior in flavor. We discussed choices in fashion and my disdain for the Orlesian practice of wearing masks outside the privacy of the home. In her own roundabout way, Adeline directed the train of thought to men.

"The commander is a treat of a man." She said with a hum, looking wistfully upwards.

I could only give a shrug of my shoulders. "It's difficult for me to think of him that way."

Adeline waved down a serving girl as she passed our table, dictating our orders for drinks and supper. "What do you mean?" She prodded, leaning an elbow against the table.

I was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "I'm not sure. I think it's because his responsibilities don't give him much time to be more than just the commander of our forces. Does that make sense?"

A shadow fell over our table and I looked up as the girl returned and set our drinks before us. I thanked her as she withdrew. "I don't think so. Explain what you mean. He is a man, yes?"

I held a hand up defensively. "That's beyond debate, of course." I agreed. "I only think his responsibilities force him to be more than a man with thoughts of sex or romance. None of us can afford for him to spread so thin. I think that risk is what makes the thought of him having base desires so far fetched. To me, at least."

Adeline sipped her wine thoughtfully. "That makes sense I suppose. What about Blackwall?"

The hint of a smile curled the edges of my lip. "A saint of a grey warden like him? Never would such a valiant man let those thoughts stain his mind."

We shared a laugh and I took a heady pull from my cup of water. "Say we live in a perfect world." She starts, drawing my attention to all of the people gathered below us. "Say the world is exactly as you would want it to be and you could have any person your heart desires. Who would it be?"

I shot her an uncertain look. "What could have possessed you to wonder something like that?"

She gave a nonchalant shrug. "I know so little of you. Well, I know you hate cheese, react poorly to certain nuts, read more than you think you ought, and have a brother in living in the Ghislain circle. But that's not truly you, is it?"

I conceded her point. I lifted my chin to the people below us. "You first," I needled.

A smile tugged at her lips as she leaned over the table for a better view. Her hazel eyes roamed from face to face, linger longer on some than others. "Him." She said at last, tilting her head to direct my eyes to an elf just below us. His dark brown hair reached his shoulders and was brushed gracefully back from his brow. His tunic was fairly thin for the surroundings and let us observe his lean and muscular build. I judged him to be an archer from the graceful power of his arms alone. His fair skin was already flushed from drink but still let the markings on his face proudly draw the eye. "Now you." She urged.

I looked over the group as a whole with relative disinterest. "Did you mean someone only to bed or someone to romance and court?" I wondered aloud.

Adeline shook her head. "Either, it's a perfect world. You decide."

I took a moment to browse the faces, wondering how one could make such a decision just on outward appearance alone. "Him," I said, discreetly pointing out a Templar eating with his group. His hair would have been raven black were it not for the warm glow of the firelight tinting it an inviting brown. His skin had been kissed by the sun and given him a darker shade than the pallor I was accustomed to in my hometown. His green eyes were soft and gave me the impression of a man that knew something of courting and remaining untoward with a woman. Overall he gave me the impression of a gentleman, the sort that might offer his lady love an arrangement of flowers or book of poems. He sipped a clear liquid I might guess was simple water and didn't seem the kind to have breath that would make me wretch after kissing him. That aside I was biased. I had frequently preferred the attentions of Templar men. I enjoyed the sense of security they offered from the menace of unchecked magic, and the training they endured to serve the chantry made me feel I might be safe from the menace of highwaymen too. They were more often than not devout Andrastians and shared the values I was steeped in as well.

Adeline made a noise of approval as she appraised him. "I get the sense you would want him for wooing and courting you."

I gave a sardonic grin over the lip of my cup. "I get the sense he's the only one here that would bother with it."

She laughed then, stopping as the serving girl approached again and left two bowls on our table. Each sported a spoon carved from wood sticking from the steaming contents and a generous hunk of bread as well. I tore a piece of my bread off, dipping it in the thick broth before popping it in my mouth and enjoying the rich taste in comfortable silence. Adeline and I tucked in with a hearty appetite and the only sound to break the quiet between us was the blowing on each spoonful and the click of our spoons against the side of our bowls. I looked over the banister again, content to watch the people as I chewed. "You might think less of me for this," Adeline said, swallowing her mouthful and idly playing with the remainder of her stew. I made a noise of curiosity before scraping the bottom of my bowl with the last of my bread. "I'd pay a hefty sum to know what a night under that massive man would be like."

I nearly choked on my bread at the way she worded it. I gave weak coughs as I swallowed and took a sip of my water. "Who on in the world are you talking about?" I wheezed. Her eyes flicked downwards, leading my gaze to follow. I leaned forward and craned my neck to see from her angle and peered under the stairs. I was dismayed only by the fact that I was surprised to see she meant the Iron Bull. She wagged a brow. "A big man like that has to be big... everywhere." She expanded.

I scoffed and flicked a drop of my broth from my spoon at her. "If you ever do find out I'll pay you twice the sum to keep it to yourself." I quipped. "The men I've known were plenty big enough for me. I don't imagine someone as big as him will let you leave in one piece."

Adeline snickered. "You deny any curiosity about Qunari men?"

I was careful not to sound haughty. "I don't deny curiosity about them as a whole. But I do deny curiosity about them in matters of... recreation."

She gave a loud laugh at that. "Recreation? That might be the most appropriate term for it in polite company when referring to rutting with Qunari."

I threw my spoon at her entirely. "Adeline!" I hissed. "That's wicked talk and I won't have it!" She practically cackled with delight at my reaction. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and giggled lightly to herself. "I don't think he's Qunari at all," I wondered, peering at him again from over the banister.

She gave me an odd look and glanced at him again. "You know of another race that bears horns and grey skin?"

I watched him take long swells from his tankard, then laughing loudly and from his belly at something one of his men said. He perpetually lounged in his chair, legs extended out in front of him and one elbow resting on the table beside him. "I mean to say I don't think he's one of the followers of their religious government," I explained, coming up short for the words they used to identify their nation. "I've heard of those that are of the Qunari race but don't follow the doctrine. I think he's tal-vashoth." His stormy grey eye flicked up to me, meeting my gaze so solidly and unflinching that I felt my heart stutter in shock. Had he heard me? Impossible. I steeled myself and held his gaze. It was a rare moment to feel confident enough not to wilt under his eye but to look away when it suited me.

Adeline seemed oblivious to the mute exchange. "Regardless, he has my interest. Have you heard what some of the Chantry sisters say about him?"

I relaxed into my chair again, turning my attention to her again. "I try not to," I retort with a laugh. "I'm off to bed. I've had all I can stomach of your antics tonight."

Adeline nodded, giving me a good-natured grin and waving bidding me pleasant dreams. I returned the sentiment and departed her company. The feeling of the Iron Bull's eye on my back was scathing as I descended the stairs. "G'night, 'Lette," Cabot called as I made my way out. I couldn't shake the nagging sensation that I had said something terribly wrong and the Iron Bull had heard it. I cast my eyes to the floor as I walked, thoughtfully considering the possibility that I might have raised my voice too much when I spoke, or perhaps his pointed ears were sharper than I realized. Blunt force impacted my stomach and the wind was knocked from me. I reeled back, hissing as something hot soaked through my tunic and stung my skin. "Are you alright?" I recognized the voice of the Tevinter mercenary, Krem. He stood before me in full armor which now dripped with what was once his dinner stew. My good mood soured. "I'm so sorry," I said, accepting a wadded cloth Cabot tossed me from behind the bar. "That was entirely my fault, I wasn't paying attention."

"Neither was he by the look of it." The retort came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see the Iron Bull approach, arms folded over his chest. "What were you doing Krem?"

The mercenary lieutenant scrubbed his armor with a cloth of his own. "Rocky asked me a question and I thought I could answer him and walk at the same time. My mistake." He shot back sarcastically.

Again an ash colored hand found my shoulder and angled me to turn towards him. "Let me see," He directed in a gentle tone. My arms fell away from my middle and without hesitation gave him a clear view of the stain. "Looked pretty hot," The Qunari observed before meeting my eyes with a probing gaze. "You sure you aren't burned?" I nodded, still clutching the cloth in one hand. He seemed to inspect my expression for a moment longer before releasing my shoulder with a gentle pat and turning to his second. "Better see about getting another ration, Krem." He quipped. "Unless you want to sip what's left out of your couter."

Krem silently sneered at the Iron Bull. "I'm sorry about that." He said, touching my elbow good-naturedly. "Lesson learned, eh?"

I agreed with a nod. "Enjoy your night," Were my parting words before I stepped from the Herald's Rest with my quarters my aim. In the quiet darkness, I could still feel the soft touch of the Iron Bull on my shoulder, something so unexpected that it stood out to me far more than the scald of the stew down my front. I hadn't anticipated a giant built for combat and strength would be able to urge me to turn without taking me in hand entirely and moving me at his will. Adeline was correct in that I was curious. I wondered what sort of place could foster a giant whose keen mind rivaled the power of his body. A tal-vashoth reared as an outcast of his own kind and others seemed an unlikely thing. I wondered if there were a polite way to satisfy my wandering mind.

The door creaked noisily as I entered my quarters, greeted by candlelight as Mabella prepared to settle in for the evening. I changed in a rush, opting to bathe in the morning rather than bother with it now and slid beneath the blanket as well. My thoughts were at ease as the older woman reached for the candle and in one breath bathed the room in shadow. It was with thoughts of horned scholars and gentle giants that I descended into sleep.


	4. Coax

Breathe in. The thunder of my pulse in my ears is deafening. I can feel my heart hammer like thunder in my chest and it's a struggle to keep my breathing in check. Breathe out. Breath like fire fans across my neck and the scrape of a beard against my collar is enough to have me whining. Inhale. The soft brush of lips against my chin, my jaw, my temple. My body jumps as two large hands encase my wrists entirely, pulling my arms forward until my palms flatten against the pulse of a warm chest. Exhale. His movements are slow and patient. In spite of my anticipation, the way I shake for need of his touch, his pace draws all of me. In. My world shrinks, the heavens pause in their cycle to wait for us, I'm made surer by the sense that there is nothing beyond us. I'm too full to have room for fear or doubt. Out. The faith in a mute promise makes me soar and I lack the will to stop the sobbing gasps of relief from wrenching from my throat as soft, cotton ropes snake and cinch around my chest and arms. My eyes flutter and I try to draw clarity from the haze he's put me in, but the answering darkness leaves me lost in the touch, the sound, and the direction he gives me. Breathe in. I can feel him draw close, cradling me to his enormous chest and knead the tension from my shoulders. In the shell of my ear, he shushes me, soothes me. Gently, inaudibly he says something to me. Breathe out. Blindly I turn to him, my head pivoting on instinct and I nuzzle his neck. "Hmn?" I press, not quite hearing him. Blunted fingers run through my hair and massage my scalp. He speaks and again it's lost to my ears. His hands find my shoulders, giving me a sharp shake. My head rises and I squint, focusing on him. "Colette!" A flash of skin the shade of ash and storm-colored eyes. I startle and gasp, the vision falls away and I flail to fight the deadly tangle of sheets and skirts around my legs.

A thin spear of moonlight breaks across my bed and I gather my thoughts enough to use it to untangle myself. My bare feet reach the cold floor and I lean my elbows against my knees, my head in my hands. I catch my excited breath and listen carefully for the sound of Mabella stirring in her sleep. The silence is reassuring. The ache between my thighs is disconcerting. It's warm in here, far too warm. I can feel perspiration making my nightgown cling to my back and I hurry to the door. The door creaks as I slip out and I flinch at the thought of waking Mabella in the middle of the night. I don't linger to find out. The cool air calms my feverish skin and I sigh for the release.

The sudden whips of air across the hold are the harbinger of a storm on the way. As I put more paces between myself and the door I hear the distant growl of thunder to our west. The sound does a great deal to interrupt the tempest in my mind and I find myself jogging on bare feet up the stairs to gaze over the battlements. The horizon was painted in dense streaks of a foreboding grey against the blue-black canvas of the night sky. "Thunder wake ya?" A night watchman greeted me, bow slung over her shoulder and pointed ears peeking out from beneath her cowl. "Yes," I lie, turning to her and offering a smile. "S'gonna be a rough one. Don't stay out long, yeah?" She puts a gentle hand to my back before continuing her patrol. I offer a nod and return my attention to the brewing clouds. The tumult of my mind settles and I find it easier to draw my thoughts away from the dream. Just a dream. A reflection of the conscious day and projection of my subconscious fears, surely. Meaningless plays of the Fade, more likely. The Iron Bull is a relentlessly sexual person, quite out of my norm. It stands to reason that listening to the testimonies of his conquests from the other serving girls and chantry women would make the thoughts skulk their way into my dreams.

I heave an exhausted sigh. What made me feel as if I had to justify a single dream to myself? It only carries as much significance as I grant it. I'd already lent it too much power with this much thought. I'll take a short walk, I decide, watch the storm as it approaches, then let the tap of rain against the window lull me to peace. I set a leisurely pace, a hand lightly dragging my fingers across the smooth stones of the battlements. I lingered in the corner of the bulwark. The brazier casting a warm glow over the stones and crackling madly with every wild whip of the winds. The hot coals contrasted the chilled early spring air and lent a sense of contentment as I gazed at the constant flicker and flirtation of the lightning edging closer. At rare moments the daring fingers of electricity mimicked the hand of the Maker and beckoned before crackling into nothing. From this distance, one could see an art form in it. Between the layers of angry clouds it illuminated the sky in sporadic depths and irregular patterns. I could see more beauty in this than the electricity that dances across the palms of mages. In the clouds, it seemed a powerful being in its own right, beholden to none.

I turned away from the storm, edging closer to the warmth of the brazier beside me. "The week's full of coincidences," The violent flap of wings and the angry caw of a raven sent me reeling backward, my back against the stone as I threw my arms up to cover my face. A moment passes without an attack and I peer through my fingers to see the dark form of a raven gliding over the bridge and dipping out of sight as it descended through the valley. Angrily I turn back to find The Iron Bull, hands now empty and an expression of thinly veiled amusement on his face.

"I don't believe in coincidences." I bite, drawing my arms over my chest. He holds his hands up in surrender.

"Got me there, it's really not much of a coincidence when I come here to send my messages and you often stalk the battlements." He joked, mimicking my movement and drawing his arms over his own barrel of a chest.

My arms drop and an explanation is on my lips when he waves a dismissive hand and silences me. "I get it, I don't mean to get your feathers in a ruffle. You do it to clear your head, I understand." A toothy grin pulls at his lips. "Sometimes you get so lost in your head you bump into crap. No judgment."

He's patient as I gape and stupidly try to think of a reply. "I'm sorry," I say after a pregnant pause. "I should have apologized when it happened, I was just frightened of you. It was ignorant and I shouldn't have judged you so harshly."

His brows rise and I get the sense that I've surprised him in some small way. "You're apologizing for running into my door and taking off or you're apologizing for being afraid of a Qunari?"

His size and tone make me feel like a small child, being lectured for poor behavior and sent to my room think of what I've done. I hang my head and shrug. "Both I suppose." I hear him shift on his feet. "But you're not a Qunari are you? You're Tal-Vashoth, right?"

He's silent for a moment then nods. "Yeah, that's right." I sense the weight of his gaze on me and I feel as if I'm being calculated. "I accept your apologies." He says, a thick finger reaching under my chin to lift my head. "There's worse you could do to someone. You had the guts to admit you were wrong. That's worth something."

His touch conjures wisps of my dream to mind and I move to gain some distance before my flush returns. I call a hasty excuse to my lips. "I shouldn't stay out much longer, the storm is getting close. Goodnight, The Iron Bull." I suddenly feel as if I'm fleeing again, and the instinct to look behind me as I leave is difficult to fight. He gives no reply as I retreat to my quarters and throw the blanket over my head. I fight to force myself to sleep, and when the fade does take me it's with illusions of blind, searing kisses and rough, commanding hands.

It's the blinding flash of lightning and crack of thunder that rouses me again. When I groan and roll onto my back the scent of tea reaches me. I realize that the storm must have broken over Skyhold later than I anticipated and morning has already greeted us. Mabella has lit a candle and sips her tea as she always does in the morning. I ease myself into an upright position and rub the sleep from my eyes.

"A gloomy morning," She comments and I agree with a huff of laughter through my nose. She takes another sip of her tea and grimaces. Her medicine was unpalatable but I approve of her dedication to taking it every morning and night. It staves off the aches in her fingers and knees, she tells me. A nuisance of a condition without the tea, I'm sure.

"What's the hour?" I ask, gathering my robe from the corner of my bed and pulling it on.

"Later than usual," She says, setting her cup down and moving to light another candle. "You sounded as though you were having nightmares so I let you sleep longer once you settled."

I groan and push my head into my hands when the memories of my dreams rush back. "I did," I agree sourly. "I can't shake them." Mabella makes a sympathetic sound and rises, knees popping, before standing beside me. Weathered hands touch my brow and give my back a gentle touch as she steps away.

"Not a fever dream. Something must weigh on you." The elder woman concludes. "Have a day to yourself, speak to the Revered Mother if you like. She may provide some of the Maker's comfort." I realize then that she thinks I'm suffering visions of Haven's destruction but has the good taste not to say so aloud, so I find it unnecessary to tell her otherwise. The shame of admitting the truth might send me to an early pyre. She continues. "I'll make your excuses to the foreman. You've not taken a moment for yourself since we came to Skyhold, one might say it's in the best interest of your health to do so."

I can't piece together a refusal so I give a mute nod and thank her. Mabella offers a sympathetic smile as she fastens her cloak of treated leather and pulls the hood up over her head. The pound of rain is deafening as she throws open the door and dashes outside, I hear the splash of her shoes across the drowned earth as she moves with all haste to the kitchens where she toils the majority of her hours here in Skyhold. Under the weight of too many hours of my own at my disposal, I throw myself back onto my bed. Still staring up at the ceiling I work my fingers through the knots and braids of my hair. I consider what to do with my time as I reach automatically for my brush and work smooth through the messy waves that always result from sleeping with my hair braided. I enjoy the repetition and the gentle scrape of the brush against my scalp and through my hair is a comfort when I find myself ill at ease.

I don't dare even think about my dreams anymore, or ponder what they might mean. I don't even have the fortitude to piece together a flippant dismissal of them. I stubbornly opt to brush it away altogether. The brush pauses in its path through my hair as it occurs to me that I have an opportunity to indulge in a pleasure that I had left behind in Orlais: a long, steaming bath. I moan with anticipation at the thought of salts and oils, soaking in the scent of sandalwood and lavender. The brush is set down in my lap as I look to the petite lockbox set beside my bathing kit and think of the purse I kept safe within. I'd done so little with the wages I'd earned during my stay here. I never permitted myself the time to spend it and my family had no want for it from me. The coins were entirely my own but I had dedicated myself so eagerly to work and toil that it never occurred to me to do much with it. I'll afford myself the luxury of a bottle of oil and a scented soap before I pay a visit to the baths. I'll pack a change of clothes, I decide and stop by one of the stalls in the lower courtyard on my way to the baths. It'll be midday soon and a time when the waters will be empty. I gather a change of clean clothes and stuff it into a drawstring sack, cinching it tight and leaving it to wait beside the door. A small wooden box of my bathing supplies beside it. Next, the lockbox is opened and I withdraw only enough, as best I can guess, I need to purchase the soaps and oil and from Bonny. A long overcoat is pulled over my nightdress and the hood drawn over my eyes, in a rush, I throw on my boots and snuff out the candles before I gather my things and dash out the door myself.

The rain has weakened only by a fraction when I step out, but the flash of lightning and din of thunder have moved away by now. Only the fringes of the storm lingered over Skyhold I guessed and I looked forward to the scent of freshly fallen rain and moist earth when I returned from my excursion. Water splashed at my feet as I hurried across the upper courtyard, descending the steps and nearly slipping on the stones as I rushed. Droplets of water fell from Bonny Sim's grand hat but the little I could see of her face seemed bone dry as I skidded to a halt before her stall. "Strange time for shopping, no?" She queried, cheerful as any merchant worth their salt would be.

"Only in the location your store currently resides." I agree with a polite nod of my head. She disposes of the pleasantries and waves a velvet gloved hand over her wares.

"What does your Ser need?" She asks politely, I respond with a shake of my head.

I explain quickly. "This isn't an errand, I'm here for something for myself. Bath oils and soaps if you've any in stock."

Her hat tips this way and that as she thinks it over for a moment. "I have a few things Ambassador Josephine sent for but never used. What do you need?"

I clutch my overcoat closer to me and lean in for shelter beneath the canvas of her stall. "Sandalwood oil would be divine. But I won't complain if you've some lavender lying around."

A slim bottle, corked in its long neck is withdrawn and offered to me. The elegant script of the label reveals an oil mixture of vanilla and sandalwood. She pulls the cork and wafts it beneath my nose and I'm disappointed. The sweet vanilla is far too overpowering for my taste. She spies the wrinkle of my nose and puts it away with a shrug. "I'm afraid that's all I have of sandalwood." Instead, she withdraws a new bottle, glass tinted a dark green and wide set body. It too is uncorked for me and I catch the aroma of leather and woodsmoke, complimented by the undertone of cotton flowers. Something I would define as a feminine spice, something I imagine a woman of some far-flung desert kingdom would wear. It intrigued me and without much thought, I pressed the coin asked for it into Bonny's hand. Now having a hint of what I liked she offered a soap of complimenting scent. An obscure mixture of spices that I quite adored. But the price had me ready to set it aside. I held out the remaining coin in my palm as explanation and Bonnie waved a dismissive hand, passing the bottle to me. "It won't sell anyway. Nobody wants soap that comes from Par Vollen." She explained. "The oxmen have strange taste in scents. Give me what you have now and you can give me the rest later. I won't be sad to see it go."

Curiously I peer down at the dark little bottle. The utilitarian shape of it could give one the impression of poison rather than soap being contained within. Gratefully I accept the bottle, holding it to my chest and offering the rest of my coin to the merchant. I flee into the rain again, with the parting words "Do come again, yes?" aimed at my back. The smell of wet hay follows me as I dash beyond the barn and throw myself through the door of the kitchens. The warmth of the ovens cuts through the damp rain clinging to my coat and I keep my head down as I weave through the cluster of bodies rushing about to prepare the midday meals. I move quietly, offering pleasant hellos when the other servants and workers pass me in the corridors. My steps echo as I pass through the wide corridor, strolling past the storeroom of the Inquisitor's collection of rare vintages and brews of drink. Turning sharply, I descend the steps into the communal baths.

The steam is already thick in the air before I reach the heavy wooden door leading in. The silence reassures me that they are indeed empty and I reach into a cubbie, withdrawing a woven basket and taking the thick towel folded neatly within. The basket is balanced against my hip and I duck into one of the alcoves lining the wall. My clothes are quickly shucked away and folded into the basket. The towel is wrapped around my middle and I deposit the basket back in one of the dozens of carved recesses in the wall and leave my boots beside it. The hinges of the door are slick with moisture and make no noise as I move inside and ease it shut behind me. The gentle sound of my bare feet on the smooth stone floor echoes in the cavernous room and I look over the small collection of pools. Each carved deep in the stone and each with a billow of steam rising from the surface. The baths themselves were original to the fortress, I was told. Each of them being fed with fresh water by the same spring that cascaded violently from beneath the floor of the forge. Ancient runes, left by Skyhold's first inhabitants, were activated again after all these centuries and gave the baths their miracle-working heat. Bolted into the ceiling, oil lamps hung over the haze of the steam and illuminated the cavern with warm, flickering light when the opaque, stained glass set high into the walls could not quite meet the task. The lap of water against stone echoed loudly and was interrupted only by the sound of my feet meeting the floor.

The towel is removed and folded beside one of the far pools. My arms wrap around myself out of habit and I cautiously dip my foot into the water. I give a small squeak as I feel the hot liquid and carefully seat myself on the lip of the bath, setting my supplies and bottles noisily down beside me. Slowly I ease myself into the pool and sigh with pleasure. Already the heat was easing the tension from my muscles. Arching backward I dip my hair in and let it soak for a moment before straightening and wringing it in my hands. Contentedly I let myself float on my back, legs crossed at the ankles and arms stretched languidly over my head. Muffled and nearly inaudible I can hear the door open and close but pay it no attention. If anyone had come in they would have the manners to bathe in one of the farther pools than bother me in mine. As the minutes tick by I feel myself relax and ease the tension that plagued me during the night. A long, silver hair fork was collected from the box and I gather my hair into a twist at the base of my neck. Water splashes loudly as I pull myself to sit on the lip of the pool again. I withdraw the sponge and soap from my box and sniff it appreciatively as I lather it and begin to scrub my arms. The tickle of the lather pulls a grin to my lips. It's short work scrubbing myself from head to toe and already the cavern smells of spices and a wood I can't place for the life of me. The sound of splashing has me looking over my shoulder, confirming my previous thoughts as I see a dark smudge of another bather in the dim lamplight. Politely I turn my eyes back and push into the water to rinse myself clean. Dipping below the surface I scour my scalp with my nails and rise again to wring the water.

The feeling of eyes on me, even through the haze of steam and lack of light, can't be shaken. Surely they can see as little of me as I can see of them? I feel myself sink further into the dark water for protection from the potentially prying eyes. I wondered if, since my purpose here was already served, it would be better to take my leave now. Hastily I gather my things back into the box and pull my hair up into the silver fork, lest it soak my clothes and leave me shivering. With a splash, I pull myself from the bath and dry myself as well as my dawning sense of urgency will allow before tugging it around my middle and setting off at a modest pace for the exit. My eyes never leave the wall beside me as I walk and I feign great interest in the faded and broken murals littering it as I go. Now outside the baths, I retreat to the alcove, redress, and retreat to my quarters.

Beyond the door of the kitchens, where I reemerged into the world I saw the clouds beginning to break. The odd patter of dwindling rain met my ears but those laboring outdoors didn't appear to bother with their hoods anymore. As I expected the scent of moist earth, damp hay, and fresh rain greeted me and I realize it's a scent I've always associated with spring, the idea of fresh starts and rebirth. It's an invigorating idea here in the cold mountains where the weather feels as if it'll only ever be stuck in autumn or winter. The noise of my boots on the mud that made up the path back to my quarters followed me and was oddly the loudest aspect of the courtyards. Ser Blackwall's splitting of firewood notwithstanding. Within the walls of my quarters, I left behind the box of my sundries and hung my cloak back on the hook.

The day passed in peace. Chapters of my book flitted by in quiet and with the dwindling light of the day filtering through my window I roused myself from my bed and set my book aside. A sharp rap against the door pulled me violently from my peaceful reverie and an edge of fear prodded at my mind as I pulled the door open. A large part of me expected to find a foreman, turned up with chastisement on her tongue for missing a day of work on a whim. Blinking in the sunset's light I'm greeted by the mousey visage of a runner in full uniform. The stocky dwarf crosses her arms as if miffed by the task she was sent on. "Bull wants to see you." She gruffed. "Says he has something of yours, see him in the Rest." My mouth fell open to pose a question as she turned on her heel and strode away. Blinking at her back I dumbly shut my mouth and felt my brows furrow curiously. Something of mine? I'd only left the room once, what could I have possibly lost in that span of time?

Hair still damp in the grip of the ornamented fork, I tugged at the edge of my tunic as the winding path led me to the door of the Herald's Rest. The friction of my breeches lends a greater warmth the fend off the chill of the air, but the shiver of nerves doesn't cease. The setting sun casts a cheerful light on the glistening trees and buildings and seemed to uplift everyone's spirits throughout the day. My head turned to peer at the passing faces. I never ceased to be in awe of the diverse cultures, countries, and races the Inquisition spoke to and inspired. Many of these people, like me, were drawn to the force of order and peace the Inquisition presented itself as and made the pilgrimage here to serve. "You look like you're feeling better." My head snapped to my right, catching sight of Adeline as she passed me. She shifted the large basket of sheets on her hip and gave me a smile. "I am, thank you. See you at supper?" I reply, finally ceasing in wringing the hem of my tunic. She gave me a thumbs up in affirmation, a gesture that was difficult to see in this increasing distance. "Wouldn't miss it!" She called, I paused at the door of the Rest to wave goodbye before quietly slipping into the tavern. The quiet murmur of conversation was rather a surprise to my ears, and I could only venture to guess that shift changes had not yet occurred. Supper must be an hour or so off. The Iron Bull was not a difficult man to find, combined with his habit of haunting one particular corner of the tavern and I was certain I could find him with my eyes covered. Maryden nodded to me in greeting as I passed her and turned to find the giant of a man in his usual seat beside the stained window and nearly hidden behind the stairs.

It occurs to me how frequently I forget the sheer mass of him. Even slouched, his weight on his forearms against a table while he speaks with Krem, I feel dwarfed. I briefly wonder how Rocky feels while working with him in the field. The two speak in low tones, clearly having a conversation of some importance. A pang of annoyance wrinkles my nose. Clearly, it's not polite of me to interrupt, yet The Iron Bull summoned me here anyway. It's an expression he seems to read clearly on my face as the Qunari glances up at me as I linger awkwardly a few paces from his table and cross my arms over my chest. With one finger he directs my attention to Krem's empty seat and words of indignation immediately rise in my throat. I look back from the seat behind me to see he's already returned his attention back to Krem and very pointedly ignoring me. I small but nonetheless, brave voice inside me says I should pour his flagon across his lap and storm out. A frustrating mixture of curiosity, pragmatism, and no small measure of self-preservation has me, instead, sitting heavily in the chair and waiting in silence. I listen in boredom as I stare at my feet. The door opens and closes no less than a half dozen times, twice I hear the pop of a cork leaving the lip of a wine bottle, only a handful of scrambled words reach me from Krem's side of the table, and without context I can only entertain myself by imagining some ridiculous line of conversation he could be responding to. The sound of the table creaking draws my attention and I see The Iron Bull push off the table and stand. Finally. My well of patience was dwindling. Krem did much to quell my souring mood with an apologetic look before he departed, and The Iron Bull beckoned me closer. I made my displeasure known, coming to stand a pace from him, both hands resting on my hips. "I came as soon as the runner reached me. I thought it would be rude to keep you waiting, but I hope you'll forgive me for interrupting. Should I have come later?" Whatever sarcasm laced my tone seemed lost on him as he shook his head. "No, you did well." My retort stalled in my throat and again I felt at a loss. I didn't expect his response to be praise.

I shake my head, "I'm sorry?"

The look he gives me is patient and I feel hopelessly lost in this conversation. "You did very well waiting for me to finish talking with Krem. You never left, didn't give any cheek, or backchat."

I scoff and try to conjure some biting reply, at least some sort of wit to fire at him but it seems unfair. I balk at the prospect of him manipulating me in some way, but I can't think of how he might have managed it. I was under no obligation to sit and wait, I could have come back at any time to collect whatever he had of mine. I could have left at any time, I could even now. The thought has some appeal. I'm already quite practiced at running from The Iron Bull. A giant hand is raised and I'm pulled from my thoughts. "I want to explain before you run off."

My arms cross over my chest again and I sounded perhaps too suspicious as I say, "I'd love it if you did."

The same hand gestures to the stairs and his voice is soft as if trying to coax a frightened nug out from its hiding place. "I have something to return to you. I can give it to you now if you want. Or you can come with me and I'll return it to you and explain why you did so well. You can leave any time you want, no questions asked."

I feel as if this invitation should raise a sense of alarm. But I struggle to believe that The Iron Bull would pose any harm to me. His expression is neutral and patient, and slowly I nod in agreement. He mounts the stairs first and I follow close behind, eyes tracing the lines of scars peppering the ashen skin of his back like brutal ornaments. My thoughts turn to consider what waits for me beyond the prying eyes of the tavern. He was unlikely to harm me, that much I was sure of. It was the unknown that invited a reflex of anxiety in me. He halted at the top of a short set of stairs, his hand lingering on the latch, and looked back at me. I hesitated to meet his gaze, he searched my expression a moment longer and seemed satisfied with what he saw before pushing inside and out of view. I followed shortly after, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the new environment. A shaft of light through the shattered ceiling left a harsh glare against the stone wall of the room, lending illumination to the disheveled bed haphazardly placed near the center of it all. A double-headed ax was buried deep in the foot of the enormous bed, which seemed to me strangely fitting for the man that slept in it. Clusters of half-used candles were strewn across the sparse furniture and along the walls where the debris allowed. Beneath one of the pillows, I could glimpse the lip of a bottle, and I get the sense that the state of his bedchamber is a greater declaration of who The Iron Bull was as a person more than any amount of probing questions. On habit, my hand reaches behind me to push the door shut as I step in.

My arms fold around myself as my gaze wanders the room and settle finally on The Iron Bull himself. I notice that his own sights haven't lifted from me since entering the room. "I'm proud of the progress you've made, Colette." He speaks in that raspy, gentle voice I hear so infrequently and I wonder if he fears I might turn and flee at any moment. It's not an unfair concern. But the confusion must read clearly on my features as he steps over the bottles and splintered wood littering the floor and with deliberately slow movements, raised his sizable hand to cup my cheek. The steady beat of my heart arrests for but a moment but I don't flinch. I'm entirely still as his calloused palm only just ghosts over the surface of my cheek. The contact lasts only a few seconds before he's pulled back, returning my personal space back to me. "You don't flinch, you haven't run, you're strong enough to push your boundaries. Even though you're not entirely comfortable around me yet, I'm still proud." My mind demands answers as I feel my chest swell. I'm pleased with myself as well, it seems. Is it possible, I wonder, that I underestimated the value I placed in The Iron Bull's opinion of me? I can scarcely think of a reason to discredit the quality of his character, and true, he's never behaved in a dishonorable manner. There isn't a reason that I might not value his opinion of me. And could I fairly criticise the judgment of Andraste's chosen by holding him in a low regard?

"Thank you, Ser." I answer. I search his expression, looking for any indication of what he could be driving at only to be stopped by the mask of complete calm.

He hovers on the edge of intimate space, only just to my left. In the same low, gentle tone he asks, "Are you comfortable with me touching you?" Without thought, my chin rises and falls. "Use your words." He directs.

"I'm alright with that. You can touch me." My voice breaks and for just an instant I see the corner of his lip curl in amusement. It disappears just as quickly as he slips behind me. I crane my neck to see him and a finger gently, but firmly presses against my jaw guides my head forward again. Hesitant, I obey and unbidden a shiver races up my spine. Beneath his hands, the small hairs at the base of my skull tickle my neck and a moment later I feel the fork slide free of my hair and allow it to spill down my back in messy waves. Thick fingers comb through the damp tresses and the point of a horn peeks into my vision as I hear him take a soft breathe of the scent still clinging to my hair.

"Do you like this scent?" He asks, breathe tickling my ear. My eyes pull open and I realize I'm nearly hypnotized by the way he's playing with my hair. I nod again. His voice is gruffer. "Words." The lesson drives home.

"Yes, I like this scent," I answer, slowly returning to my senses.

"It's been a long time since I've come across it. Reminds me of when I was young. I'm happy you like it, and I want you to have it back." With that, I became painfully aware of his absence. He strode with all the ease in the world to his bed and snatched the bottle from beneath his pillow. Immediately I recognize the bottle of soap Bonnie sold to me this morning. In one outstretched hand, he returned it and gratefully I lifted it from his palm. Before I can offer any thanks he turns and seats himself on the edge of his bed, knees spread quite far. Crooking a finger, he beckons me forward and directs me to sit at his feet. Carefully I pick my way over the debris and with one hand he nudges my hip to make me turn from him before kneeling and resting against my heels.

"Are you comfortable with sitting here?" I crane my neck to look up at him, his knees comfortably hugging my shoulders and disarmed by the intimacy of this position I nod.

"Yes, I am. Thank you." The bottle rests safely on my lap and he passes me the fork that he removed from my hair before silently nudging me to look forward again. The shuffle of movement reaches my ears, followed by the gentle tug of a brush through my hair. He feels me stiffen between his legs.

The brush halts. "Is this alright?" His tone doesn't prod or pressure me to agree, he's searching only for my most sincere thoughts and feelings it seems.

I let the pause linger for a few moments as I consider it and force my posture to relax. "Yes, this is alright."

In any other context, the shock of what he says next would have floored me. "Good girl," he coos, returning the brush to my hair and I catch my lip between my teeth to contain my happiness at his praise. I'm suddenly grateful that my back is turned and the scarlet blush blooming across my face can't be seen, but I can't be sure it doesn't reach the tips of my ears. He seems experienced in the process of brushing out hair as I can feel him easing the tangles from the ends of my hair first and slowly working his way upwards. "You did very well downstairs." He still speaks so disarmingly softly and the rasp of his voice lulls me into a deeper state of relaxation as he brushes. "I knew you would be patient if I needed you to be, and you were. You follow directions very well, don't you?"

I nod again and nearly forget his twice reminding me to speak, rather than a nod or shake my head. "Yes, I think I do." I murmur.

He's nearly halfway up the length of my hair now. "Thank you for behaving so well. I'm happy you trusted me enough to do as I asked and come up here. I would be very happy if you continued using that soap in your hair, would you be alright with that?"

"Yes, I would." I agree absently, thoroughly serene under his gentle attention. "It smells good." I hear him hum in agreement.

"If you like; you can come to me and ask me to brush your hair anytime. Would you like that?" The brush caresses the crown of my head and I nearly whine with disappointment that he's finished his task. Still, he idly lets the soft teeth of the brush run through my now smooth hair.

"I would like that very much." Again, the vulnerable honesty he's drawn from me shocks me.

He acknowledges me with another hum. "Would you like me to put it back up or braid it for bed?"

I thoughtfully worry my lip between my teeth as I consider his question. "Would you braid it please?"

I can hear the grin in his voice. "So polite. Yes, I'll braid it for you."

The sensation of his finger parting and carefully twisting my hair nearly lulls me to sleep. It's such a rare thing that I can sit in comfortable silence with someone and The Iron Bull lets me lean heavily against his right leg as he braids. As he finishes I feel him tie off the knot with a strip of fabric and drape the neatly finished plait over my shoulder. Sighing contentedly I sit up off his leg and rouse myself to full awareness. "I meant it, Colette, you may ask me to brush your hair any time you like."

Shifting on my knees I turn to look up at him. "Thank you. That's a very generous offer and I won't take advantage of your kindness."

His hands rest on his knees and he gives me a soft smile. "All I ask is that when you come into this room you ask me for what you want. Can you do that for me?"

His request doesn't seem odd, I only wonder why he would feel the need to reinforce something I surely would have done on my own. Nonetheless, I agree. "Yes, I can do that. Thank you."

The short nod of his head signals his permission for me to stand and while he's seated I can finally meet his eyes without looking up. His head tilts towards the door. "Go and get some dinner now, it'll be late soon. You did very well." Bottle and hair fork in hand, I slipped from the room. The chatter of the tavern seems to have picked up in the short time that I'd been with The Iron Bull and nobody seems to notice me as I slip down the stairs to wait for Adeline at our usual table for supper.

Author's Note: Aaaaaaaaaaalright. So, let me explain! A lot of garbage has gone down while I was writing this. I was hospitalized for a week to treat my depression, there was a pregnancy and miscarriage in my family, and other various hardships that nooooobody wants to hear about. So if you're still reading this I'm eternally grateful. Things are getting better and hopefully, I'll be able to get and stay on track with this. Now, for the fic: as we can see Bull and Colette are getting warmed up to each other. You all read the tags, you know what this is going to evolve into. And hopefully, we can all agree that Bull has it in him to be an amazing Daddy Dom. Comments are appreciated, and you kudos fuel me. Thank you again for reading. xoxoxo


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